


Obligatory Migraine Fic

by taylor_tut



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Sick Character, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:46:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25374106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taylor_tut/pseuds/taylor_tut
Summary: A request from my Tumblr for Tim and Martin helping Jon through a sudden migraine attack at the office.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 210





	Obligatory Migraine Fic

“What are you doing in my desk?” Sasha demands sharply, startling Jon so badly that Tim pops out one earbud to listen in on the conversation. He hadn’t even noticed, really, engrossed in his work as he’d been, but when he looks up, it’s clear that Jon is, in fact, digging through the bottom drawer of Sasha’s desk. She never locks it, but that’s mostly because no one in the Institute has any desire to invade her privacy--particularly, he’d have thought, the uptight and proper Jonathan Sims. 

“Sasha,” he stammers, “I’m--sorry, I--I shouldn’t have—”

She sighs, ever-patient, and her eyes warm with the sort of knowing that can only come from how long she’s known Jon and how deeply she loves the people in her life. 

“Are you looking for the statement you asked me for this morning?” she asks, voice a bit softer now but no less accusatory. “Because I put that in the pile of statements on your desk this morning before I left.” 

“I know,” Jon is quick to agree. “I’m not, uh, looking for that.” 

He’s embarrassed and flustered. How charming, Tim thinks, biting on a smile. 

“Then what are you looking for?” 

He shakes his head. “It’s not important,” he says, turning on his heel to leave. “I’m sorry for the invasion of your privacy and it won’t happen again—”

“Jon,” Sasha calls, stopping him in his tracks. “Clearly, you needed something that couldn’t wait until I came back from the dentist, so just tell me what it is and I will get it for you.” 

He shifts his weight from heel to heel and sighs so nervously that every time Tim blinks watching it he expects to open his eyes to a Jon-shaped hole in the wall behind them. 

“Paracetamol,” he admits in a mumble, face flushed and eyes averted. Sasha’s face brightens. 

“Is that all?” she laughs gently. “Oh, Jon. You should have just said so. How many would you like?” 

Jon shrugs. “I--er--usually take four for—,” he stops himself, realizing that he’s giving away too much, then shakes his head. “Four, if that’s alright.” 

Sasha nods. “Of course.” She shakes four pills into his palm, then two into her own--probably some tenderness from the dentist, Tim knows, but Jon’s pain is a bit more perplexing. He’s concerned, of course, but at the same time, asking what’s wrong isn’t going to do anything but drive Jon further away into his office, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

He’ll figure it out some way or another, or he’ll get Martin to do it. 

“Thank you,” Jon says sheepishly, popping the pills into his mouth and following that with a sip from the bottle of water Sasha offers him. He turns to leave as soon as he’s swallowed the pills, and Sasha and Tim wait in silence until they’re sure he’s out of earshot to turn to one another with wild eyes. 

“Jon is dying, right?” Sasha surmises, and even though it’s a joke, Tim winces. “I mean, he’s done something improper, then admitted human weakness in front of both of us. He must be dying.” 

Tim rolls his eyes, smiling. “Or,” he counters, “and hear me out on this--he slept in his office chair last night and now his back hurts, but he doesn’t want to take a break to rest it.” 

Sasha mockingly contemplates this, nodding and stroking her chin. “Hm. A solid theory, Mr. Stoker. Evidence?” 

“He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing yesterday.” 

“Ah, that’s fair. And here I was, thinking you’d finally gotten him to go home with you.” 

“Oh, come off it,” Tim laughs. A moment passes, and he feels the weight of her comment, however ridiculous she’d meant it to be, pressing down on his shoulders. “I’ll check on him at lunchtime, make sure he’s still alive.” 

It seems as though the stress of the promotion gets to Jon, sometimes. Tim isn’t sure what it is, but he’s never seen Jon quite so possessed by this job as he is now that he’s been made Head Archivist. He works as if he needs it to survive, like he’s a tuna fish and if he stops moving, he’ll drown. 

Sasha doesn’t argue, doesn’t tease, doesn’t say a single word before settling in at her desk once more to finish out the day. 

He gives in an hour, per Sasha’s warning. In that time, she’s had to enter his office twice to ask him questions about the logistics of a few deliveries to artifacts storage, and both times, she’s walked out frustrated and angry because Jon is apparently, “in a mood.” All things considered, that’s not unusual--Jon is always mercurial, but the fact that he’s been bad enough to upset Sasha is cause for concern. She’s always been able to shrug it off; they all have, and she knows that, so it worries Tim a bit when she begins acting as a bouncer and discouraging people from talking to him. 

“Martin,” Sasha calls as he walks by with a mug of tea in his hands. She beckons him toward her with one finger, and he obediently makes his way to her desk. 

“Hi, Sasha,” he greets with a chipper smile. “Did you need something?” 

“What are you going to Jon’s office for?” she asks, and he blinks. 

“Oh, I was just going to give him some coffee,” he replies. Sasha shakes her head.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” she warns. “Opening that door is entering the lair of the beast, today.” 

Martin frowns. “Really?” he asks. She nods. “Well, it’s just--I mean, I believe you, of course--but it’s--he asked me to?” 

Now, it’s Tim’s turn to frown. “Jon? Our Jon asked you to walk into his office in the middle of the work day. To bring him coffee, something I’ve never even seen him drink?”

Martin shrugs. “He texted. Honestly, I thought it was a bit… odd. We didn’t even have it in our break room--I had to go down to the library drip pot for it. He must be quite knackered.” 

Dubious, Tim thinks, because Jon is perpetually exhausted, and the more tired he gets, the more he hates distractions because he finds it harder to refocus afterward. 

“Tim, go with him,” Sasha half commands, half pleads. “I can’t be bothered to sweep Martin’s bones out of the hallway when Jon eats him like an owl.” 

“Right,” Tim agrees, taking a few steps ahead before turning back to Martin, who hasn’t moved. “Well? Coming?” 

Martin nods and shuffles after him. 

Tim doesn’t make a habit of knocking on Jon’s office door--mostly because it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission from Jon about these sorts of things. He does, however, hesitate this time, just for a moment, because although it’s difficult to tell with the window curtain pulled all the way down, it doesn’t appear as though the lights are on inside.

“Are you sure he said he’s in his office?” Tim asks Martin lowly. 

“I assumed,” Martin admits. “The text was… brief, even for Jon.” Martin hands the coffee to Tim so he can dig around in his pockets for his phone, which he retrieves and unlocks, pulling up said message for him to read. 

Brief is an understatement, Tim thinks. It’s so uncharacteristic of Jon that Tim wouldn’t believe that he’d sent it if he weren’t looking at it. There’s no greeting, no capitalization; it’s not even a complete sentence. “favor - coffee please” 

Tim pulls a face. “Oh, that canNOT be good.” He decides to knock after all. “Boss? You in there?” No reply. Tim feels his stomach start to tighten with dread. “Martin’s brought you coffee. Open up?” Again, nothing, and it only takes one glance at Martin’s face, displaying the same worry that he’s sure is reflected in his own, to have him reaching out for the doorknob. “I’m coming in,” he calls. 

The lights are, indeed, off inside the office. Tim flicks the light switch on, and before he even has a chance to look around the room, a moan of pain sends his blood running cold. 

“Lights,” Jon hisses, “aah--off.” Martin takes care of that while Tim is still in a bit of shock, and while he’s at it, ushers Tim the rest of the way into the dark office and shuts the door behind them. 

There’s silence for a moment while Tim and Martin’s eyes adjust to the dark, and once they do, Tim can see Jon is sitting at his desk with his head down and buried in his crossed arms. He doesn’t look up at them, but he does stick one hand out to make a grabby motion for the coffee. 

“Careful, Jon, it’s still hot,” Martin says quietly. That doesn’t deter Jon, however, who sits up, one hand still covering his eyes, and begins to drink it with just the slightest bit of desperation. “Are you alright?” Jon huffs out a short, bitter laugh through his nose. “I mean, clearly, you’re in pain, but--I mean--are you--is it a headache?” 

Jon hums an affirmative noise, and Tim snorts. 

“This,” he gestures to Jon, his dark office, his apparent inability to even speak, “is NOT a headache.”

“A migraine, I meant,” Martin amends. “My mother gets them. I didn’t know you did, too.” 

Jon’s finished the coffee already and has his head in his arms again. “Not often,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “Forgot to take preventative meds.” 

“That’s why you were in Sasha’s desk for paracetamol,” Tim surmises. 

“Thought I could get ahead of it.”

“Oh, Jon,” Martin breathes, stepping forward to place a gentle hand on his back. “Why didn’t you just go home?” 

“Better here than on the tube,” Jon says, and for once, Tim actually pities him. 

“I’d have driven you home if you’d asked, Boss.” He’s not sure whether Jon knows that already and Jon gives no indication either way. Tim sighs. “Alright, no use in beating a dead horse. What can we do to help?” Jon shudders in pain, actually shudders, and doesn’t answer, so Tim directs the question to Martin instead. “Do you think he needs to go to hospital? He seems bad.” 

“No,” Jon interjects, even though Tim has a sneaking suspicion that the objection is probably more because he doesn’t want to go outside where it’s bright and loud rather than because he actually doesn’t need medical attention. 

Martin, however, seems to agree. “Let’s give the caffeine some time to work,” he says. “I’m going to get a few things. Tim, get him lying down? It may help.” 

Tim agrees, watching Martin shuffle to the door and placing his wide hand over any places where the light may seep through Jon’s elbow where he’s buried his face. “Watch your eyes,” he murmurs lowly, but Jon still moans when the door opens and a small amount of light soaks the room. “I know,” Tim finds himself cooing, using his free hand to smooth over Jon’s hair. When the door shuts, he kneels down. “Think you’re up to moving?” 

To his credit, Jon only gives one shuddering sigh before he steels himself and allows Tim to help him to his feet. There, he’s unsteady, leaning heavily on Tim as if dizzy. Tim doesn’t take him far, only a few steps to lie down on the floor. He shrugs off his jumper and folds it a few times, leaving one arm out of the makeshift pillow so that Jon may use it to drape over his eyes. The entire ordeal goes so slowly that by the time he’s finally flat on the ground with his eyes protected, Martin is back, opening the door as slightly as he can slip through. 

“Alright,” he greets quietly, “I’ve got an ice pack and some paracetamol. Jon?” 

He’s absolutely pliable in Tim’s hands as he’s sat up, clearly against his will, to receive the medicine and water. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes for reasons beyond Tim’s comprehension, after he takes the pills. To his relief, Jon appears to relax a bit when the ice is applied to his eyes. 

“Just try to rest,” Martin soothes. “We’ll take care of things until you’re feeling better.” 

Tim kneads the tight muscles at the back of his neck. “Get some sleep, boss. Work can wait.”

For once, Jon just cooperates.


End file.
